The Reichenbach Paradox ON HIATUS SORRY
by Trouble in the Night
Summary: SET PRE-RBF, DESPITE TITLE! Rory Williams, a young nurse and an old friend of John is found unconsious and badly injured in a forest. When a strange man in a bow-tie turns up to 'take him off John's hands,' John will not allow some stranger to take away his patient. Sherlock is most curious, the Doctor is most concerned, and what does the Master have to do with all this? No slash
1. Prologue

**Hello everyone! Well, I've been wanting to write a Doctor Who/Sherlock crossover for yonks. This, my friends, is it.**

**You may notice that this prologue bears striking resemblance the beginning of the latest chapter of my Doctor Who one-shot series 'Epic Rescues.' To the point where copy – and –paste was used. If you have read Epic Rescues, you will notice that there are further parallels between the two, but they are by no means the same story!**

**I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who or Sherlock**

Rory had been in better situations. Of course, he'd been in worse ones too. Having his wife turned into a doll right in front of his eyes hadn't been as great as this. Neither had being sucked into the crack and being erased from space and time. However, as situations go, being backed against a tree in the middle of a forest with nothing but a stick to defend himself from an onslaught of countless monsters certainly didn't rank amongst Rory's favourite pastimes. He groaned. Couldn't the universe leave him alone for one week without sucking him into some kind of intergalactic catastrophe?

They were everywhere. Humanoid creatures that seemed to be made entirely out of shed-tools, which Rory had to admit was definitely new. In spite of everything, he laughed. The chain-saw arms weren't to be messed with, but the chisel-noses were comical, to say the least. He supposed the only way to stay sane in such situations was to not take them seriously.

He had no idea how many of the strange monsters there were. Nor did he have any idea where or when he was. He'd been walking home from work, when he'd slipped in a puddle and found himself alone in a dark forest. Normally, this would scare him to his core, but he was currently preoccupied with the more immediate threat of the army of tool-people bearing down on him.

He glanced round desperately, searching for something – anything – to defend himself with. His sword would be useful right now, his shield even more so. Why was he never wearing his centurion get-up when it was needed? There was no way he could defend himself from this many monsters. He looked up at the tree above him, grasped one of its lower branches, and began climbing. He hoped the tool-monsters couldn't climb.

Once Rory was reasonably high up, he stopped and surveyed the area around him. He cried out in despair. There were hundreds of them – thousands even! They were marching through the forest in in army formation, towards a distant foe. At least Rory wasn't the target. He'd just wait here until they passed, then try to work out when and where he was and send a message to the Doctor. Maybe he could take a leaf out of River's book, and carve 'Doctor, Help!' into some ancient stone or something.

Figuring he might be there for a while, Rory climbed up a few branches and sat down. He glanced downwards, and laughed. Most of the monsters that had been attacking him had moved on now, but one was trying to balance another other on its shoulders. Four more stood around them. They were certainly very persistent, but Rory was sure they'd give up eventually. He might as well make himself comfortable, as comfortable as one could be when stuck in a tree in the middle of a forest surrounded by an army of strange monsters.

Rory closed his eyes, and rested his head against the tree trunk. His legs were shaking like jelly, as he felt all the energy drain out of him. It had only just occurred to him how tired he was – it had been a long day at work, with several surgeries taking place that required his assistance. Running back and forth throughout a hospital with supplies vital for a patient's survival really took it out of someone. It was due to this sheer exhaustion that Rory had been clumsy enough to slip in a puddle in the first place. A surge of adrenalin had given him some energy when he arrived here, but now…

A chainsaw roared to life, and Rory's eyes jolted open. Four of the monsters had successfully stacked themselves on each other's shoulders. They were using the tree trunk to support themselves, and the top one was wielding a chainsaw inches away from his wrist. He pushed himself to his feet, and was about to continue climbing up, when he heard the sound of wood against metal and felt the branch give way beneath him.

The world was a blur as Rory tumbled down the tree, his head thudding painfully against the branches. He felt branches break beneath him as he landed on the rough ground. There was a clank of metal beside him. He turned his head to see that the four monsters themselves had fallen, and were now struggling to get up. Rory's vision began to become clouded with dots, but he willed his limbs to move. His body, however, refused to budge, and darkness was beginning to enclose him.

They were before him, their chain-saw arms glinting in the moonlight. Adrenalin surged into his muscles, and he grabbed a thick branch. Bearing it like a club, he knocked the monsters back. He took a moment to gather himself – a moment too long, apparently, for he felt the hot, sharp steel cut painfully into his skin. He thrust the end of the branch into his attacker's chest, dislodging its systems. Sparks began to bounce around it, and it fell twitching onto the floor.

Rory continued to defend himself in this manner, but he could never have won. Each time he knocked out one of the monsters, another took its place. By the time Rory had dispatched nineteen (yes, he had been counting) of the strange monsters, the dull throbbing of his head finally overcame him and his legs gave way. The world around him was fading rapidly, and chainsaws whirled around his head.

After a split second decision, Rory began to crash through their ranks, desperate to get out. He kept his back to the tree trunks, guarding his vital organs, not really caring if the rest of him got torn into shreds. After what seemed like an hour, he broke free of their ranks, and ran, forcing his exhausted legs to move just a little bit further. After about five hundred meters, his legs gave way beneath him, and he came crashing to the ground. Blackness overcame him, and he passed out.


	2. Chapter 1

**Here we are, chapter one! In case anyone was wondering, this story is set between 'The Hound of Baskerville' and 'The Reichenbach Fall' for Sherlock, and sometime during Season six for Doctor Who. Please enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: If it's in a BBC TV show, then I don't own it. No matter how much I really, really want to. *sighs***

John groaned, rummaging through stacks of paperwork. It had been a long, eventful day at work, and now, to top it all off, he had a stack of medical reports to fill out by the next day. It was currently 12:27 pm, according to his computer, and he had only completed about a quarter of his paperwork.

Sherlock sat across from John, watching him intently. "Would you like a hand with those?" he drawled.

John glanced up in surprise – Sherlock did not often offer to help. However, he quickly regained control of his features and fixed his flatmate with a glare. "What?" he grunted.

Sherlock plonked down beside him. He removed a stack of papers from John's pile and began working.

"What are you doing?" John questioned suspiciously.

"Helping," replied Sherlock nonchalantly.

John nodded to himself, taking a moment to digest this information. "Um… Why?"

Sherlock looked at him, an amused twinkle in his eye. "I have little experience in the area of friendship, but I have heard it is common practice to aid a friend when he or she is under stress, however slight, be it physical, mental, emotional, or…"

John shook his head. "Yeah, sure, why not?" he muttered. "Okay, Sherlock. Thanks."

Sherlock appeared not to have heard him. "… In your case, I'd say the long work hours and the sudden increase of paperwork are the main causes of your stress, but the lack of sleep induced by the paperwork would be magnifying the effects. If this continues, you will not be able to function properly and you will be absolutely useless should a case come up." Of course, it was_ always _about Sherlock's cases. "Besides, we can't have you falling asleep during some poor soul's surgery tomorrow, can we?"

John sighed. "Um… right. Fine." He fell silent, and watched his flatmate ruffling through the paperwork. "Wait a minute!" he panicked, throwing himself on top of Sherlock's pile. "This is confidential information! I can't let you see it!"

"You and your confidentiality," Sherlock groaned. "It's so _dull. _I don't understand why it bothers you so much. After all, I could deduce any of this given information from a single glance at the individual in question."

"Because," John glared, "I took an oath. And because people have a right for their personal information to be confidential. Besides, you haven't seen any of these people, so unless you can deduce their medical details from my eyebrow movements, SOD OFF!"

Sherlock chuckled. "Eyebrow movements, John?"

"Shut up," John grunted, taking back the paperwork. "How would you know what to write in the reports, anyway? You may be a genius detective, but you're not a doctor and you weren't at the hospital today."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, John. I can easily deduce what I don't know from the supplied information. For instance, the shape of the slight creases in your fingertips and the location of the creases in your shirt tell me you spent most of your time today resetting broken bones. You are currently chewing your lower lip, which could be a sign of confusion or frustration, but most likely annoyance. Before you began working on that particular form, you wore a very different facial expression. Also, you are continuously flexing your wrist, so…"

"Sherlock, that's enough!" John practically shouted.

"… young girl, probably between the ages of six and ten years, who hurt her wrist on a playset. The girl's wrist is not broken, but her mother refuses to accept this, and keeps bothering you," Sherlock finished meekly.

John masked his admiration at the analysis – his flatmate's head was big enough as it was. In truth, Sherlock was 100% correct, and John was running out of polite ways to say 'your kid's fine, sod off.'

"Of course, you'd probably be finished by now if that nurse wasn't on your mind," Sherlock muttered.

John's head snapped up in surprise. "What?" That morning, a young man had been found unconscious and badly injured, alone in a dark forest. He'd been rushed into the hospital where John was currently working, and John had recognized him immediately as Rory Williams. A few years ago, when John had six months leave from Afghanistan, he had taken a temporary job at the Royal Leadworth Hospital. There he had met Rory Williams, a young nurse whose quick thinking and initiative had quickly impressed him. They'd kept in touch after John returned to Afghanistan, which was more than John could say for most people he befriended.

Twelve hours after Rory had been rushed to hospital, he hadn't regained consciousness. As far as John was aware, he still hadn't. They'd done all they could for him, and Rory was in a stable but critical condition. John was fairly sure he'd make a full recovery, but he couldn't help but worry. They had no idea of the cause of Rory's condition – what if they were missing something important?

"How could you possibly know about that?" John asked Sherlock, then instantly regretted it. Sherlock's features lit up in anticipation, and the ex-military doctor lay back, resigning himself to letting Sherlock explain his extravagant thought processes.

"You've been wearing a look of obvious concern ever since you arrived home," Sherlock began. "It hasn't wavered at all, and it's stopping you from being able to eat properly or focus on your other cases." He gestured to the mound of reports between them. "It's something related to your work, because your ear has been twitching. It does that when you get nervous, but only when you have some control of the situation."

John stared at his flatmate. "My ear is twitching?" he remarked incredulously.

Sherlock gave a bored sigh. "Yes, John. Your ear twitches sometimes. May I move on?" John nodded, and Sherlock continued. "Your look of concern is accompanied by one of comprehension, so it's probably medically related."

"Medicine isn't the only thing I 'comprehend,'" John muttered.

Sherlock ignored him. "Your brow is also creased in what I perceive to be confusion. This directly contradicts the look of comprehension, so the causes of the situation are highly mysterious. So, you're dealing with a particularly drastic case with mysterious circumstances. In most people's cases, this alone would explain your behaviour. You, however, are a doctor. An army doctor. You're used to dealing with extremely drastic cases, often with mysterious circumstances. Therefore, the victim is someone you were previously acquainted with. Probably a former colleague, judging from…"

"I haven't been able to contact his wife," John interrupted suddenly.

Sherlock stopped. "Why would you want to do that?"

John closed his eyes in frustration. "Because, Sherlock, people like to know if one of their loved ones is in a critical condition. Besides, Rory was found alone in the middle of a forest. It's entirely possible she's also in some kind of danger, and we need to make sure she's safe."

"Rory?" Sherlock mused. "I presume he's the nurse. If you were on a first name basis, then perhaps you were on closer terms than I originally thought."

John sighed. "Yes, Sherlock. _I_ am perfectly capable of making friends."

Sherlock nodded. "And his wife? What's her name?"

"Amelia Pond," John replied. "She's nice – I met her at their wedding."

"Interesting," Sherlock muttered. "I suppose the fact that you can't contact her is some cause for concern."

"That's what I thought at first, but I talked to somebody at Royal Leadworth Hospital, where we worked together," John told his flatmate. "He doesn't work there anymore, but apparently they travel a lot, sometimes leaving without a moment's notice. So, it's not so unusual." He sighed. "Anyway, the police have been notified. Lestrade's on it, so you'll probably find yourself involved too."

Sherlock nodded, digesting this information. The prospect of this new case excited him. A young nurse, turning up alone and unconscious in the middle of a forest – it was riveting, really. He glanced across at his flatmate. The ex-army doctor lay back against the couch. Sherlock sat on the edge of his seat, watching him. A few minutes later, John was asleep.

Sherlock placed a pillow behind John's head, and spread a blanket over him. A wry smile crossed his lips as he reached across for the paperwork.

* * *

Amy groaned. Her husband was, once again, late home from work. Yes, she realized that his job was important and that sometimes, people's lives depended on him working overtime. But seriously, he should've been home eight hours ago!

The first time it happened, not long after their marriage, Rory had been home nine hours later than expected. Amy had been so worried; she'd actually called the police and reported him missing. Officers had been sent to the hospital, only to be told by the receptionist that he was working overtime, and that she thought Amy had already been notified. Apparently there had been some car accident, and Rory had insisted on staying. He hadn't stayed much longer than that, and had arrived home shortly afterwards, having already received an earful from the receptionist and gearing up for another from his wife. Fortunately, Amy had been too tired to lecture him at that point, and was just relieved to see him safe. The next morning, however, was a different story.

The second time he'd been that late home, she'd just phoned the reception, to find he'd taken another shift and forgotten to tell her. Since then, she'd reached first name terms with all the late-night receptionists. One of the receptionists, Sonja, had already called to tell her there'd been some patients brought in who required urgent surgery, so Rory would probably be working overtime, and what scathing remarks would Amy like her to say to make him feel guilty? Eight hours, however, was a little excessive in Amy's opinion, and she considered calling reception again.

Amy reached over the table, grasped the phone and dialled the number. She was pretty sure Donna would have taken over from Sonja by now, which meant Amy would probably be on the line for a very long time – she and Donna always found themselves chatting. On one occasion, she'd called to ask where Rory was, and they'd still been talking when he arrived home three hours later. She hoped Donna hadn't put too many emergencies on hold during the 'strictly professional' call.

To Amy's disappointment, Anna answered the call. Anna was a lovely person, but she wasn't quite the conversationalist Donna was. They spoke briefly, and she asked after Rory. The answer caused her heart to clench with dread. Rory had left the hospital three hours ago. Sensing Anna's panic, she hurriedly assured the receptionist that they had planned to go to a party that evening, and she was just calling to make sure he was there and not still at work. It was a pathetic excuse, but Anna seemed to buy it. Amy hurriedly excused herself from the conversation, saying she herself was soon expected at the fictional party, and hung up the phone.

Amy collapsed back onto the couch. It was probably fine, she thought. Rory had probably just gone to the pub or something. But Rory only ever went to the pub after work to catch up with friends, and never without telling her. And there was no way any of his friends would want to meet up at this hour.

It was probably nothing, she assured herself. There must have been a miscommunication at the hospital or something. Nonetheless, she picked up the phone, and dialled the Doctor's number.

Amy sighed in relief as she heard the Doctor's voice over the phone. "Doctor," she breathed, "Rory's gone missing."

**So, what do you think? Brownie points for reviews! Constructive criticism is always greatly appreciated. Au Revoir!**


	3. Chapter 2

**Yes, I know, long time, no update! I'm VERY sorry, especially considering the warm reception this story has received! I've been extraordinarily busy, and really haven't had a spare moment in a long time. I can't promise this won't happen again. However, I can promise I will not abandon this story, I will see it through until the end. I'm quite excited about it, really. Also, you may notice a change of title… feel free to theorize!**

**Enjoy**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Doctor Who. Unfortunately. *sobs***

Lightning flashed across the dark, rumbling sky. Huddling under the futile protection of the veranda, a very drenched Greg Lestrade banged impatiently against the door of 221b Baker Street.

He knew Sherlock was at home, because he see the Consulting Detective in the window and he could hear Bach's Concerto for Two Violins (somehow played on one instrument, though how Sherlock was managing that was beyond him). He also knew John wasn't home, because otherwise he wouldn't have been left outside in the pouring rain for a quarter of an hour.

Greg growled in frustration, glaring up at the window. Not for the first time, he considered just leaving. After all, it was mostly John he needed to see. But he needed to speak to John as soon as possible, and that was when he returned to 221b Baker Street. He could go to the hospital, but the nature of John's job meant it wouldn't be easy for the Doctor to nip off for a bit. Besides, Greg knew from experience that he'd be regarded as an intrusion and a terrible inconvenience. And anyway, John might have already left for the day, for all he knew.

He considered texting John, and then abandoned the idea. Sherlock was such an annoying prat, and Greg took it upon himself to irk Sherlock as much as possible. Turning up at 221b Baker Street on a frequent but irregular basis was one way he could achieve this. No, he was going to stand here, until somebody let him inside. And then he wasn't going to leave for at least an hour.

"Oh, you poor man!" Greg spun around to see the Landlady hustling towards him, her coat pulled tightly around her, firmly clutching her umbrella.

An umbrella, thought Lestrade. What a wonderful idea. "Hello, Mrs Hudson," he replied, managing to sound somewhat amiable.

"Come in, come in, you're soaked!" Mrs Hudson hustled him inside. "Did Sherlock leave you outside in that weather? Oh, he's a bad man! I'll fetch you a towel. Would you like something to drink?"

"Tea would be lovely, Mrs Hudson," Lestrade replied thankfully, accepting a large, maroon towel from the landlady. "I do need to speak to John though."

Mrs Hudson shook her head, sighing. "John's at work. The poor dear keeps being given horribly long shifts. Sherlock's upstairs, working on something, don't ask me what. Awful of him not to let you in, though. Those boys…" She shook her head affectionately, handing Greg his tea.

"Thank you," murmured Greg, accepting the beverage. "Actually, I need to see Sherlock, too. I'll go up and talk to him. See you later, Mrs Hudson."

"Goodbye, Detective Inspector," she replied, and he began to climb the stairs.

The second he entered the living space, Sherlock appeared in his face. "Have you got a case for me?" he demanded.

"Hello to you too, Sherlock," Greg replied. "And yes, my day was fine, thanks for asking. How was yours?"

Sherlock pouted. "Bored," he pouted, flopping down onto the couch. "A case, Lestrade. Do you have one for me?"

Greg grimaced. "Yes. No. Sort of."

Sherlock gave a tight smile. "John should be home soon, so then you can ask him about Rory Williams. Anyway, you're wrong. The wife is innocent."

Greg gaped at the other man. "I'm not even going to ask," he muttered. Nonetheless, Sherlock opened his mouth. "Please don't explain," Greg interjected hurriedly, but the Consulting Detective was already launching into a detailed explanation.

"Yesterday, John told me you were working on Mr Williams's case. It was only natural that you should come to see his doctor to get more detail on the nature of his injuries, which John tells me are mysterious, to say the least. But, having just come from an interview with his wife, you've determined she's at least partially responsible. You've got a faint trace of mascara on your hand. Not your wife's, she doesn't wear it. Anyway, it can't have been there for more than an hour. So, within the last hour, you've been holding hands with a crying woman. The positioning of the smudge on your hand suggests you were tense at the time, so it wasn't a woman who was familiar to you. So, it was probably someone related to a case. You've only got one case at the moment. Mr Williams doesn't have any family apart from his father, so it was his wife. As to how I know you suspect her," he held up his phone. "You have a contact list of people you send texts to on professional matters. Just your immediate colleagues, and only the ones you trust completely, Sergeant Donavon for example. I took the liberty of adding myself to said list during the Baskerville case."

Greg groaned. Indeed, he had sent a text, naming Mrs Amelia Williams and an adult male friend – tall, brown hair, dressed in suspenders, a tuxedo and a bowtie, who introduced himself only as 'The Doctor' as suspects. Greg glared at Sherlock. "Fine. How do you know she wasn't involved?"

"Because she was crying," Sherlock stated simply.

Greg rolled his eyes. This, coming from a supposed sociopath. "And you don't think she could have been faking?"

"That Mascara has connected to the hairs on your hand. It hasn't washed off, despite the fact you've been walking in the rain, so it's waterproof. For it to get on your hand, she must have been crying before you arrived. Quite violently, too, it takes a fair amount of tears to dislodge waterproof mascara, does it not? If they were tears of guilt, she would have been guarding herself, not crying openly with you as she has apparently done."

Greg sighed, taking a second to absorb this information. Sherlock's phone buzzed. The Consulting Detective picked it up, deftly throwing it at Greg. "Read that out, will you, Lestrade?"

Greg opened the message. "Working overnight. There's risotto in the body-part-free section of the fridge. If you or Lestrade want to talk to me, come to the hospital – JW," he read. "Body part free?..." he trailed off, deciding he really didn't want to know.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "Excellent!" he cried, sweeping up his cloak. "Come along, Detective Inspector!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, and, sighing, followed the younger man out the door.

* * *

Sighing, John Watson sagged against the wall, exhaustion from the day's events finally beginning to hit home. Working in the Intensive Care ward was taxing at the best of times, and to make matters worse, two of the overnight doctors had called in sick. Two doctors really weren't enough for the overnight shift, so John had offered to stay.

Someone touched his shoulder. John spun around to see Laura, one of the nurses. Although she was quite young (certainly no older than thirty) she was one of the senior nurses in the ward. "You should go home," she urged him.

John snorted. "You're one to talk," he replied. "This is your… what, fifth shift?"

Laura laughed. "Third, and I'm about to go home – I'm splitting this shift with Vanessa. But I'm serious, Doctor Watson. You've been here since seven this morning. Honestly, you should at least take a break. My flat is just next door; you can get a few hours' sleep and come back, if you like."

"Nah," John smiled wryly. "People might talk."

Laura rolled her eyes. "Just take care of yourself, all right? There's enough people in this hospital without us having to check you in."

John gave a shaky laugh. "Likewise, Laura. Have a good rest. Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Not in the morning, I hope," Laura grimaced. "You're a doctor, you really ought to be aware of how much sleep you need to function properly."

John laughed. "You wouldn't believe how many times I've tried to explain that to my flatmate. My shift doesn't start until two pm, and believe me, I'll be spending the morning in bed. Hopefully Sherlock won't have some foul experiment going on that forbids all notions of sleep."

Laura laughed. "Your flatmate can't be _that _bad."

"Oh, believe me, he's worse," John groaned. "Anyway, you haven't answered my question."

"My shift starts at midday," Laura smiled. "Well, see you then, assuming neither of us dies of exhaustion before then." She turned to leave.

"Bye," John called after her. She glanced back at him, smiling. Sighing, he glanced at his clipboard. There was nothing that required his immediate attention, so now was probably a good time to check on Rory Williams. He trudged down the corridor towards the young nurse's room.

As John neared Rory's room, he heard a faint whirring sound from within. He stopped dead, his soldier's instincts immediately telling him something was amiss. He pressed his ear to the door.

"For pity's sake, be careful, Doctor!" a woman's voice scolded.

"Sorry," a man's voice grunted. "A bit of help, River, if you wouldn't mind…"

The woman sighed. "I've half a mind to leave you here, it would serve you right. How did you manage to get your foot stuck in the door anyway?"

"The TARDIS was being cheeky," the man muttered.

The woman sighed. "Well, maybe if you didn't always leave her brakes on…"

John's brow furrowed. Surely he couldn't be hearing correctly… honestly, this rivalled some of Sherlock's dialogue for strangeness. Only some, mind you. Nonetheless, there were strange people in his patient's room. He reached underneath his jacket, lightly touching his Browning.

"Well then," the man called. "Amy's preparing the infirmary, we better not keep her waiting for too long! Come on, let's take Rory out of…"

The man never finished his sentence, before John Watson burst into the room, gun in hand. "Step away from him," he barked, glancing at the two intruders. A tall, brown-haired man, dressed in a tuxedo and bowtie, cradled Rory's head, while a tall, curly-haired woman took his pulse. "I said step back!" John repeated, his soldier's instincts flaring.

Abruptly, the two people did as he asked, a look of disgust crossing the man's features. "I am sick and tired of guns," he glared, trying to swat the Browning from John's hand. "Honestly, America is bad enough, but for a _doctor _in a _hospital_ in _London_ to have one? That's ridiculous."

The woman rolled her eyes. "I told you making too much noise would give us away."

The man shot her a dirty look, before turning back to John. "I'm the Doctor, by the way. This is River Song. We'll just be taking Rory off your hands…" He darted towards the unconscious man, but John blocked his path.

"What?" John snorted. "You expect me to believe you're his Doctor?"

"Weell," The Doctor considered, "I wouldn't say I was _his _Doctor. I don't think Amy would be too pleased about that. Nope, I'm just the Doctor."

"Yes, well. One doctor to another…" John began sarcastically, before the woman, River, interrupted him.

"Oh, he's not a _medical _doctor," she said, glaring at her friend.

"What, so you just have a degree in cheese-making or something?" John muttered.

"Cheese-making?" The Doctor grinned. "Nah. Bit of everything, really. But I am rather good at cheese-making."

River rolled her eyes. "I'll get a memory worm," she muttered.

"Fine!" the Doctor exclaimed.

John's brow furrowed. "Memory worm?"

The Doctor nodded. "One touch and you lose all memory of the last hour."

John stared at him incredulously. "Come near me with any sedative and I'll shoot."

"All I want is to take my friend to a half-decent hospital!" The Doctor exclaimed.

Anger rose up within John. A half decent – how dare he? "I can assure you, St Barts is a fully competent, qualified hospital," he replied coolly, "and I'd thank you not to insult my skills -"

"Doctor? What's going on?" a red-haired woman appeared in the doorway of – a blue police box? In a hospital ward?

John blinked rapidly, recognizing the woman as Rory's wife, Amelia Pond. Who had just come out of a blue box. A blue, 1950's police call box, sitting in the ICU ward in St Bart's hospital. Why hadn't he seen it before?

"Amy," he heard himself mutter faintly, "what the hell?"

Amy surveyed him curiously. "Hey," she said, sizing him up. "John Watson, right?"

"Yeah, that's me," replied John. Dimly, he was aware of his gun falling to his side, and he quickly flicked the safety and shoved it in his pocket.

"And you're working at St Barts?" Amy wondered. "Rory said you were in Afghanistan, getting shot at or something. What happened?"

"What? Oh, well. I got shot," replied John, grimacing. Obviously she didn't read his blog. "Ended my career pretty quickly."

Amy winced. "Sorry to hear that. Hey, you'll have to come round for dinner sometime, when Rory's back on his feet."

John's brow creased in confusion. How had he gone from trying to stop his patient from being kidnapped by a mad man with a box, to being invited over for dinner by said patient's wife?

Suddenly, the Doctor laughed. "Oh, I remember you!" he grinned, madly indicating Amy and Rory. "You were at their wedding! So you're an ex-army Doctor? That's brilliant!" He edged towards John. "You're brilliant, it's written all over you. Now, I'd love to stay and chat, but we really are on a tight schedule…"

John laughed shakily. "Yeah… no."

Amy frowned. "I'm his wife. I can discharge him."

"Yes, you can," John replied, "but that involves a truckload of paperwork, you can't just take him away in a magic police box or whatever."

"So… does that mean you won't let us take him?" asked River.

"Yes, yes it does," John confirmed.

"Simple solution," the Doctor proposed. "We'll take John with us!" He turned to the ex-army doctor. "Oh, you are going to love it! All of space and time to see, and you look like a man who could use a holiday."

"Well, that's true," muttered John. "Wait, what? All of space and… look, I don't know what you're playing at, but if you don't leave right now, I'll call the police."

"Oh, you definitely need a holiday..." River muttered, fumbling with something in her pocket.

There was a sharp prick in his hand. The world around him began to blur. He looked down in horror, to see a small needle protruding from his hand.

River shrugged apologetically. "Tranquilizer dart."

John's vision tunnelled, and all went black. Oh, Sherlock was going to love this.

* * *

"Where's John?" Sherlock demanded as he and Greg Lestrade entered the ICU ward, swinging on the young nurse unfortunate enough to be walking in the opposite direction.

"Sorry, who?" she asked nervously.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Doctor Watson. Where is he?"

"He was just checking on a patient," the nurse replied. "Funny, he should be back by now…"

"You wouldn't happen to know where Rory Williams is, by any chance?" asked Lestrade, glaring at Sherlock. He had to remember not to let the Consulting detective do the talking. Ever.

"Room 278. Actually, that's who Dr Watson was checking on. But sir, visiting hours are over…" The nurse protested as Sherlock swept past her, leaving Greg to quickly apologize and explain that this was a police investigation. He turned the corner just in time to see Sherlock break into a run. Sighing, he followed the younger man.

He found Sherlock pressed against the wall of Rory William's room, his brow creased in concentration. Greg immediately fell silent, and was alarmed to hear raised voices coming from within the room.

Suddenly, Sherlock burst into the room. Lestrade followed, to find Sherlock tackling a man in a tweed jacket inside the room. An unconscious John Watson lay on the floor beside them, and a curly haired-woman knelt beside him, checking his vitals.

Rory Williams lay on the bed, his wife sitting next to him clutching his hand, both seemingly unaware of the chaos ensuing around them.

It was at this moment that Rory's eyes flickered open. The young nurse glanced at the scene around him. He looked up at his wife. "Amy, what the hell is going on?" he croaked.

**Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed! I have some replies for you:**

**SeraphAdena: Thank you, my dear fiend :D Glad you like it**

**Nataly SkyPot: Haha, I had to look up what 'muy bueno' means. Glad you think it's good, hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

**Cactus Noir: Yeah, cutting down the tree would probably be the smart thing to do… then again, it might blunt the blade. But yes, I'd be terrified if I were attacked by garden tool monsters. Or any kind of monster, really. Thanks for your review!**

**Greekgirrl: Thanks, glad you liked it, hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

**Sarpndo: Yes, it is a bit of a problem, isn't it? I hope I resolve it to your taste!**

**Flight of Insanity: Thanks, here you go! and great pen-name, btw! **

**Panther Moon: Thanks for your encouraging feedback! Characterization is a personal priority for me, so I'm glad you liked the character development**

**FisherofMen: Here you go!**


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